Same War, Different Day
by Sheason
Summary: This is what I get for trying to write a story without having a plan for where it's going, I guess. This was an experiment, and I failed. Oh well.
1. Operative (Prologue)

_Two days before the burning of Teldrassil...  
_

* * *

The sun was setting on Stormwind, and Mathias Shaw couldn't help but sigh in frustration. It seemed like every day was getting shorter and shorter, but the reality was even worse: there was just too much to do, and not enough hours in the day to get it done. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent night's rest.

Apparently, it hadn't been enough to defeat the Legion. The forces of the Alliance and Horde had worked together for months without rest to drive back the demons, fight them on an alien world, and banish a _literal god_ , and as soon as the dust settled? The Horde launched an offensive in Kalimdor. And suddenly, everyone was back at each others throats, as if nothing had changed.

Thud.

"More reports from Darkshore, Boss," Renzik said, dropping a pile of papers nearly as tall as he was in front of Mathias' face. "The Night Elves are holding the line, but barely."

"What about our operatives we dispatched behind the lines?" Mathias asked his goblin number two. Renzik just pointed at somewhere in the middle of the stack.

"Report's in there, Boss," he said with a shrug. Mathias sighed again and gripped the bridge of his nose.

"Sum it up," he grunted out with exasperation. "It'll take me two hours – at best – to work through this pile."

"They're doing what they can to sabotage the Horde's supply lines, and wreck the siege weapons before they can reach the front," Renzik replied. "But it's not enough. There's too many of them, and not enough of us to make any meaningful progress before the reinforcements arrive." Mathias buried his face in his hands, and the goblin made his way for the door. "Don't work yourself too hard, boss. You won't do anyone any good if you keel over."

Renzik shut the door behind him as he left, and Mathias went back to his mountain of paperwork with a sense of weary resignation. However, he didn't get far before he was interrupted by a much more unexpected intrusion.

"You know..." a gravelly voice spoke up from somewhere directly behind Mathias. "For the leader of the world's preeminent intelligence agency, your office is stupidly easy to get into."

Mathias knew that voice, and didn't even bother to look up from his paperwork. He was too busy, and didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Sheason Fisher..." Mathias grumbled. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

"I was in the neighborhood," Sheason said simply, silently walking around Mathias' desk. "Thought I'd check in on my old friend, see how you're doing."

Mathias looked up from his work, and locked Sheason with a suspicious, questioning gaze.

Something was wrong. Sheason Fisher was one of the most effective black op agents that SI:7 had ever produced, and was a veteran of the First, Second, and Third wars. He had 'retired' warlords, exposed traitors, and toppled governments back in the day. Only a handful of people still alive even knew about the _existence_ of his file in SI:7 records, and of those, even fewer had the clearance to access it; even _then_ , half of the file had been redacted. But Sheason hadn't been an agent of SI:7 – hell, he hadn't been a member of the _Alliance_ – for **years**.

He wouldn't be here unless he needed something.

Would he?

"What do you want?" Mathias asked, turning back to his mountain of paperwork. There was too much history between the two of them, that Mathias didn't even bother trying to be subtle and just cut straight to the meat of things.

"How's the Uncrowned holding up since I left?" Sheason asked, leaning against the nearby wall; the longer he stayed still, the more it seemed like he was blending in with every shadow on the wall.

"Officially, as leader of SI:7, I have gone on record condemning the actions of the extra-national terrorist organization known as 'The Uncrowned.' But, unofficially?" Mathias cleared his throat. "Not well."

"Let me guess..." he began, chuckling grimly, but Mathias cut him off before he could _actually_ guess.

"Garona and VanCleef had a bit of a... disagreement. Of sorts. As far as I'm aware, the Uncrowned haven't actually met since the Legion was defeated at Antorus and Sargeras was imprisoned."

"To be honest, I'm amazed it didn't fall apart sooner," Sheason said, chuckling one final time. "Do you think Vanessa is going to be a problem?"

"Fisher, is there a point to this? I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a bit busy at the moment," Mathias gestured to the gargantuan pile of paperwork cluttering every inch of his desk.

"Yeah, I heard about both sides restarting that stupid pissing contest," Sheason said, stepping away from the wall. "I knew that was gonna happen. I tried to warn you before I left, but I guess you didn't listen to me."

"Yes I **did** ," Shaw said with surprising force, setting down the documents in his hand. "But if you recall, at the time, the war against the Legion was at its apex. We had our hands full, and I wasn't going to burden King Anduin about the _potential_ of a Horde attack based on the gut feeling of a man who is supposed to have been dead for **years,** and who technically doesn't exist."

"Fair enough..." Sheason shrugged.

"So, was it worth it?" Mathias asked. "Leaving Azeroth to chase after that half-demon witch, just when we could've used your talents against the Legion most?"

Sheason didn't say anything at first. He honestly didn't know how he could explain to Mathias what had happened the last few months in a way he could understand. Hell, even Sheason had a hard time believing some of it: spaceships, planets exploding, different universes, getting most of his organs replaced, a hated enemy becoming an ally, and even killing a nascent Elder-God. It was all just a bit much to take in. Mathias would probably think Sheason had lost his mind.

Then again, Sheason started comparing that turn of events to the fight against the Burning Legion, and it suddenly didn't seem all that far-fetched.

"Yeah, it worked out in the end," he finally said, before adding "More or less."

"So, does this mean you're here for a job?" Mathias asked. "My offer from a few months ago is still on the table, after all. We could use your specific skill set, now more than ever. Especially after that failed Gathering in the Arathi Highlands..." Mathias cleared his throat. "Say the word, and I'll have your Operative status reinstated." Mathias paused, and then added with a morbid chuckle: "...assuming you get that Horde tattoo taken off your arm, first."

"You don't have to worry about that," Sheason said, flexing his right arm and clenching and un-clenching his fist several times. "I had to get that arm replaced, and it didn't really feel right to re-do the ink with Sylvanas on the throne..."

"... replaced?" Mathias asked, unable to hide his confusion. Sheason cursed silently under his breath. He used to be better at not letting information like that slip, but several years of not needing to meant he was out of practice.

"It's... a long story," Sheason said simply. "It's not important." Mathias narrowed his eyes, obviously suspicious, but he decided not to press the issue.

"Right..." Mathias muttered, before returning to his paperwork. "Either way, the offer is still open."

"What's wrong?" Sheason asked, folding his arms across his chest again. "You've never been this thirsty for me to come back to The Agency before."

"I'm just... a little stressed," Mathias gripped his forehead, and started to rub his eyes. "The way things have been going lately, all-out war could break out _within the hour_. And here I am, stuck behind a desk, polishing a seat with my ass, unable to do a damn thing..."

"That's the best place for you," Sheason said, as diplomatically as he could muster. He had a sneaking suspicion where this was headed, and he didn't like it one bit. "In all the years we've known each other, I've never met anyone else as talented as you at figuring out intelligence. You're able to see patterns and decipher uncrackable codes that other people just can't..."

"That's nice of you to say," Mathias replied, refusing to look up at Sheason. "But even so... I just feel like I could be doing more, if I could just get out there..."

Sheason carefully placed both hands on Mathias' desk, and fixed him with a gaze made of ice water. Mathias, uncertainly, looked up.

"Okay, you and I have been friends for a long time, so I want you to understand that what I'm about to say is for your own good..." Sheason began. "Shaw? You are **shit** at field work."

Mathias did a double take, and looked at Sheason in shock and indignation, momentarily unable to formulate any kind of response. So Sheason continued.

"Do you remember what happened the last time you got a bit restless, and thought you could do more 'good' closer to the frontline? You should. It wasn't that long ago. Do you remember how it _ended_? Because I certainly do, I had to help clean up that mess. You were captured by the Burning Legion, impersonated by a Dreadlord – for _months_ – and Amber Kearnen, one of your best agents, was **murdered** ,inches from her goal, as a result."

Mathias finally found his voice.

"Death is a risk we all accept as part of the job, _Fisher_..." Mathias growled, getting up from his seat and matching Sheason's angry gaze. "Agent Kearnen knew those risks, same as the rest of us. You should know that better than **anyone**."

"It was an _unnecessary_ risk, and **you** know **that** , _Shaw_..." Sheason growled back. "If you hadn't gotten restless... if you hadn't presented such a juicy target... if you had just stuck to what you're **best** at... then Detheroc – using your authority – would not have ordered her _assassinated_ , and Amber might still be alive. Her blood is on your hands, all because you got tired of sitting behind a desk. And you should **never** forget that."

The two of them glared at each other for several seconds, before Mathias finally backed off, and sat down behind his desk once more.

"So that's a 'no' to my offer, I take it?" Mathias asked. Sheason sighed, removing his hands from Mathias' desk and standing back up straight.

"Look, no matter what... I'm always going to be your friend, Shaw. We've got too much history for that not to be the case. Hell, I still remember the day Pathonia handed you the reigns to The Agency. But... I'm no patriot for the Alliance. Not anymore. I can't return to SI:7, because these... these old hatreds between the Horde and Alliance are never going away. If working together to beat the Legion once and for all couldn't get both sides to finally lay down arms, then **nothing** will. And I can't be part of that madness any more."

The room was silent for several seconds.

"So why even come back to Azeroth at all?" Mathias asked. "You had an easy way out, and the means to never come back. I mean, if this 'madness' is inevitable, as you say..." Sheason didn't answer for several seconds. Eventually, he shrugged.

"Like I told you before, I just wanted to check in on my old friend." Sheason replied. "And I guess... you might say I was feeling a bit homesick."

Mathias sighed, shook his head, and turned back to his paperwork.

"You won't be able to stay neutral, you know," Mathias said, trying to inject as much gravitas into his words as possible. "Not with this storm billowing on the horizon, and not with Azerite starting to crop up everywhere. Everything is going to get swallowed up by this storm, and you'll be forced to pick a side..."

Mathias looked up, only to realize that his office was now completely empty.

Sheason was long gone.


	2. Violence and Crime

_Several weeks later...  
_

* * *

It was a relatively quiet night in Booty Bay, and Sheason was sitting alone in a secluded corner of the Salty Sailor tavern. Of course, it wasn't _really_ secluded; just like a goblin city is never _truly_ quiet. But the background noise, the smoke, and the haze in the dimly lit tavern was enough to offer all the privacy he needed.

He always liked this bar. The place only ever got really busy during the Kirin Tor pub crawls... but they made a hell of a South Island Iced Tea. Drinking always helped Sheason think.

And he definitely needed some time to think, because it seemed that Sheason picked a hell of a time to come back home. He had known that war between the Horde and Alliance was going to come back to bite everyone in the ass eventually. After all, neither side had ever signed an armistice, so a return to fighting was almost inevitable. He'd said as much when he paid Mathias a visit several weeks ago. But this... this was something different. Teldrassil burned to ash, Undercity rendered an uninhabitable blighted ruin, Stormwind itself almost burned down after the Horde infiltrated the Stockades... The last time he saw both sides this desperate for blood was... was...

It was the Second War, he said quietly to himself.

He sighed, and took a sip of his drink. The war against the Legion had been unimaginably costly. The navies of both sides had been nearly wiped out, hundreds upon thousands of soldiers had died, war shortages had driven almost every nation on the planet to the brink of economic ruin, and to cap it all off, the sword of the fallen Titan was still buried in Silithus. Hell, you could see that damn thing from **orbit**. You would think, after all of that, everyone would simply be too exhausted to just go back to killing each other as if nothing had changed.

Unless...

Something else was going on here. He could feel it in his gut, but he couldn't put his finger on the-

Someone was coming. There was movement all around this tavern, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of someone walking in his direction, specifically. Instinctively, his hand rested on the hilt of Black Menace, the dagger on his hip.

"Hello there, soldier boy," he heard a female voice from somewhere over his shoulder. "This seat taken?"

"No one's sittin' there..." Sheason said gruffly, pretending to take another sip from his drink. "You're certainly welcome to keep me company if... you..." He trailed off as he finally looked up to see a familiar pair of bright blue eyes looking at him beneath a head of wavy black hair.

"Vanessa," he said finally. "Fancy seeing you here."

Vanessa VanCleef gave Sheason a wry smirk before sitting in the seat opposite him. He almost didn't recognize her without the red mask obscuring the lower half of her face. She wasn't wearing her usual Defias-red outfit, either; instead, she had opted for something drab, brown, and grey. You could almost call it practical. If anyone were to look in her direction, she probably wouldn't warrant a second glance – which, Sheason assumed, was probably the point.

"Hello, Sheason," Vanessa said, drumming her fingers on the table. "I assume you had fun on your little trip? You look good."

"Thanks," Sheason said, quickly downing the rest of his drink before VanCleef could get her hands on it. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Oh, you know," she said, resting her elbows on the table. "I was in town for a bit of business. Wouldn't you know it, I just so happened to hear a rumor: a ghost, come back to life. I figured it might be you, and thought you might be interested in my... _business_." She smiled broadly at him and laughed, her pearly whites twinkling in the candlelight.

"Business?" Sheason asked, suddenly interested. "This wouldn't happen to be Uncrowned business, would it?" Sheason kept his face passive as he asked. He had heard one story from Shaw, but who knew if that was the truth? It was probably for the best to 'play dumb' for the moment, if only to gauge her response.

"No..." Vanessa said, letting out a single laugh. "No, not even slightly. Some... things happened, and I thought it was time to leave. If you catch my meaning."

"I'll bet," Sheason grunted, before his mouth cracked into a smirk. "I'm sure it had nothing at all to do with Garona getting the top spot for Shadowblade after I left." Vanessa furrowed her brow, regarding him carefully.

"... you really haven't heard, have you?" she asked. When Sheason didn't respond after several seconds, she continued. "Fair enough, you've been gone a while. Garona didn't become Shadowblade, because she isn't a member of the Uncrowned anymore. Sylvanas must have had something on her, because as far as anyone can tell, she's been 'conscripted' to fight for the Horde."

Sheason silently pondered this news. Either Mathias didn't know, or he was trying to obscure the truth. Assuming, of course, Vanessa wasn't lying herself to cover up something...

That's the problem with dealing with so many spies, thieves, and assassins, he thought: you can't afford to take anything at face value. Either way, Sheason figured it was probably worth looking into, if only to find out the truth.

"Garona wasn't the only one, either," Vanessa continued. "You remember Lilian Voss? From what I hear, she's thrown her lot in with the Banshee Queen. And that... doesn't make any sense at all. She **hates** the undead, and would never serve Sylvanas. I figured it was time to cut my losses, and leave before someone found me and press-ganged **me** into some manner of service, like the two of them."

"I'll be honest, I'm still surprised you didn't disappear altogether when we brought Shaw back," Sheason said, leaning back in his chair. Vanessa shrugged.

"I won't deny, I thought about it. Every day I saw him, I half expected him to show up with a coterie of the King's thugs and haul me off to the stockades. But enough about that..." She glanced down, and pointed at Sheason's empty glass. "Can I buy you another drink while we talk shop?"

"Really," Sheason said flatly. "You expect me to accept a drink? From _you_?" Vanessa just rolled her eyes.

"Please. If I wanted to poison you, I would've spiked your drink before you even sat down... And you are currently much more useful to me alive."

Sheason leaned back in his chair again, and started to absentmindedly scratch his beard.

"Okay..." he said eventually. "I'll bite. What's the job?"

"The usual," Vanessa smiled. "Violence and crime. I've got a score lined up, and I figured you might need the money..." she paused, and shrugged. "Hell, I certainly do. You familiar with a place called Freehold?"

"What, that lawless port off the southern tip of Kul Tiras? Yeah, I'm familiar. I don't think I'll ever forget the unique bouquet of smells I encountered in that wretched hive of scum and villainy. Last time I visited the place was the Second War, though..."

"The Second..." Vanessa looked momentarily confused. "Just how old _are_ you, anyway?"

"Old enough to know better," Sheason smirked. "So, what's the score? Is this something just the two of us can pull off, or will we need to find more? Or..." Sheason glanced around the tavern furtively. "...would you rather tell me when there are less people about?"

"I'm sure we'll pick up more people on the way," Vanessa said, getting up. "I've hired a ship to take me to those islands. You in?"

As it happened, Sheason didn't _actually_ need the money. But, it was something to do – and, more than that, it was a decent excuse to figure out what was actually going on in the world.

"Sure, sounds like fun."

* * *

"So, that's the ship, huh?" Sheason asked as the two of them made their way down the docks. Vanessa nodded silently.

The ship moored in front of them was a nondescript square-rigged galleon; on the surface, it was nearly identical to the half dozen other merchant ships moored around Booty Bay. But there were a few telltale signs that it wasn't all it appeared. Sheason could see at least a dozen camouflaged gun ports carved into the side. The rigging for the colors above the quarterdeck – Kul Tiras green at the moment – looked like they were made to be put up or taken down in a hurry. And even from this distance, he could see that the hull had damage from a recent battle that hadn't yet been fully repaired.

No doubt about it. This was a pirate ship.

"I know what you're thinking," Vanessa said as they started to climb the ramp onto the ship. "And they're not pirates."

"Could've fooled me," Sheason grunted.

"The Captain hails from Kul Tiras, and has a Letter of Marque from the Proudmoore Admiralty in her quarters," Vanessa explained with a smile. "She's very proud. Has it framed and everything."

"Privateers, then," he chuckled. "That's just a pirate with permission from the state."

"Oh, like you're any better," Vanessa nudged him in the ribs. "A spy is just a criminal with a government paycheck."

"No arguments here," he said. Vanessa shook her head and laughed.

"Ahoy there and avast, me hearties!" she yelled in the direction of the Mizzen Mast, unable to disguise the laughter in her voice. "Permission to come aboard the Onyx Pike, skipper!"

"Don't..." Sheason shook his head and made a not-so-subtle chopping gesture with his hand by his neck. "Don't do that." Vanessa just waved it off.

"Ah, she knows I'm just having a little fun."

"Oi, s'about time yer arse came aboard, lil' miss!" a gruff female voice bellowed out from above them, heavily accented with a thick Kul Tiras brogue. "Th' crew was getting' itchy, we's just about ta weigh anchor an' set sail wi'out ye!"

Sheason's blood suddenly became as cold as the icy winds of Northrend. He _knew_ that voice. He'd recognize it anywhere. That was unmistakably the voice of Davira "Brass Knuckles" Smythe, a vicious and blood-thirsty sailor who Sheason had... 'met' several times before.

Thud. A pair of heavy boots hit the deck directly behind him.

This was not going to end well.

"Aye, an' oo's this lubber ye brought on wi' ye, eh?" the female voice laughed raucously as she spoke; Sheason, very carefully, turned around. "Don' tell me tha' h –"

The red-headed pirate captain stopped speaking, and her green eyes went wide as pie-plates as soon as Sheason finished turning around. Her shocked expression looked carved out of granite. He gave her a weak wave.

"Hey there, Dav," he said meekly, forcing a smile. "How've you been?"

The response he got was a look of pure, unbridled rage for a split-second. It was all the warning he got as she unsheathed the cutlass at her hip and swung it in a wide arc; if he hadn't seen it coming and thought to duck, she would've taken his head clean off.

"Git offa me ship, ye trait'rous scab!" she snarled. Sheason dropped a smoke bomb, rolled out of the way, and had his twin daggers – Black Menace and Bonescraper – in hand by the time he was back on his feet.

 _This is why I never go to parties_ , Sheason thought grimly to himself. _I've got too much history with everyone._

"Okay, Dav, c'mon, calm down! I didn't come here for a fight!" he said, trying to stay on the defensive. She blindly swung her cutlass through the smoke, sending shards of wood flying everywhere as her blade slashed through the deck.

"Calm down? CALM DOWN?!" She boomed, charging through the smoke and readying to swing her sword again. "Shut yer gob, ye bleedin' twat! I oughtta tie up yer arse and 'ave ye lashed t'me keel fer what ye put me through!" Her sword cut through the air, aiming it square at Sheason's face; with a clang of metal against metal, he parried the strike with his twin daggers and kicked off the wall to put some distance between them. All around, he could hear the sounds of the crew shouting and jeering, apparently not sure if they should intervene or just watch.

"Dav, c'mon! That was a long time ago!" Sheason yelled out, trying to keep the Main Mast positioned squarely between himself and the enraged swashbuckler out for blood. "Even I can't hold a grudge for a decade!"

Sheason had to think of a way out of this, and fast. There was a reason Davira had the nickname "Brass Knuckles," and if she was able to close the distance, she'd rip him in half...

And then, the unexpected happened. There was a flurry of enchanted smoke, fur, and teeth. The next thing Sheason knew, a huge furry claw grabbed him by the neck, lifted him in the air, and slammed his back against the Main Mast. A pair of furious green eyes looked at him from within a snarling, wolf-head face, framed by a tangled mass of fiery red hair.

"I said..." Davira snarled, baring her fangs – quite literally – as she got right in Sheason's face. "Get. Off. My. Ship."

Sheason struggled momentarily... and then Vanessa walked up to the two of them, calm as anything. Davira's ears twitched, and she glanced over at VanCleef, still keeping the squirming Sheason pinned to the mast.

"So..." Vanessa said with a shrug, pointing back and forth between the two of them. "I take it you two have met."


	3. Sea Dogs

Davira did eventually stop trying to kill Sheason. Vanessa just had to remind the belligerent pirate captain about the job – and, more importantly, all the money they were set to make – and she let him go. Begrudgingly. After all, the best way to win over a pirate is to mention cash.

Of course, Sheason was never one to let things go, or leave well enough alone. It wasn't in his nature to stop. About an hour after they were underway, and Booty Bay was rendered a distant, dwindling speck on the horizon, Sheason decided to try and talk to Davira – and, hopefully, apologize for what he had done to her, all those years ago.

Unfortunately, as he made his way up the stairs to the Quarterdeck, his path was blocked by an enormous slab of sirloin steak on legs. The tauren in front of him scowled, snorting derisively at Sheason's approach; he stood there, unmoving, with arms crossed. This obstinate living wall of beef made it quite clear: Sheason was not welcome.

"Hi," Sheason eventually said uncertainly, trying his luck despite the futility. "Can I... uh..." he pointed to Davira. She was back in her human form, carefully turning the ship's wheel while consulting the compass in her hand.

"The cap'n is busy," the tauren pirate bellowed, sending wads of spittle flying directly into Sheason's face. "She ain't got time to talk to no one. Least've all, **you**."

He knew what was coming next, but for some reason, he couldn't stop himself. The words were already coming out of his mouth; all he could do was brace for the impact and hope for the best.

"Yeah, but I –" was all he managed to say. A large, meaty finger flicked him right in the middle of his forehead. The impact sent him flying halfway across the deck, and he crashed – upside down – into the side of one of the ship's cannons. The entire crew erupted into a chorus of raucous laughter.

Sheason picked himself up, sighed, and made his way to the fore of the ship. Maybe he'd get another chance to try and make amends later.

* * *

 _In Silvermoon there lived a maid,  
_ _Mark well what I do say!  
_ _In Silvermoon there lived a maid,  
_ _And she was mistress of her trade  
_ _I'll go no more a rovin' with you, fair maid!_

 _A rovin', a rovin',  
_ _Since rovin's been my ru-i-in,  
_ _I'll go no more a roving,  
_ _With you fair maid!_

Now that they far enough into open sea, the crew had started to sing shanties as they worked. Sheason lost track of how long he stayed standing at the prow, staring at the horizon, listening to the songs of the crew. The salty sea-spray filled his nostrils, and he started to finally feel relaxed.

A sense of smell can be a funny thing. Sheason had been to many distant places and worlds over the years, and every place had a very distinctive odor; he also hated almost all of them. Maybe it was the fact that the most common smell was the wet-sock odor of recycled starship air that had been forced through one too many CO2 scrubbers over the years. But no matter how many alien worlds he'd seen... none of them matched the uniquely comforting aroma of Azeroth.

For some reason, this planet just _smelled_ like home. He didn't understand why. It didn't make any sort of logical sense whatsoever. But that's just the way his brain decided to process this information.

"Ahh!" a satisfied female voice behind him broke Sheason out of his reverie. "That's much better." He turned to see Vanessa approaching him. She'd ditched the "practical" outfit she'd been wearing in Booty Bay, and was back to her usual Defias red. She adjusted her mask one last time and leaned against the railing opposite him.

"Pleased with yourself?" Sheason asked. Vanessa chuckled softly behind her mask.

"Just glad I finally got out of that straight-jacket getup, you know?" she asked rhetorically, casually pulling a throwing kunai out of her thigh-holster and spinning it around her finger. "I wouldn't be able to fight in all that; I don't know how you do it. I mean, I feel like I can actually _move_ , now."

Sheason glanced down at her exposed thighs.

"So... is that why you never wear pants?" he asked with a laugh. Vanessa just shrugged.

"Theatricality and distraction are powerful agents against the uninitiated."

Sheason furrowed his brow and thought about that.

"I thought the quote was 'theatricality and _deception_ ,' not distraction?" he asked. Vanessa finished toying with the knife in her hand and slipped it back in the holster.

"Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe," she waved him off. "Enough about that; I'm more interested in you, and just how you happen to know Brass Knuckles up there. Why is she so interested in ripping your throat out?"

Sheason tried to disguise just how badly he was squirming at the question, which made him suddenly very uncomfortable. So he cleared his throat, to buy a few precious seconds.

"Dav and I go back a long way," he said, determined to keep it as simple and free of incriminating details as he could manage. "But we had a bit of a... falling out." He cleared his throat again. "The real question is: how do _you_ know Dav?"

"There's no big story, really. We pulled a few jobs together, while I was busy faking my death," she said; even with a mask covering the lower half of her face, her smile was obvious. "You know she's friends with Fleet Admiral Tethys?"

"Something tells me 'friends' is a strong word, and not-at-all-accurate to describe _anyone_ that Tethys knows," Sheason chuckled. "There's a reason the Bloodsail Buccaneers are feared across every sea on Azeroth, and he is **absolutely** that reason."

"Makes sense," Vanessa said. "Still, if it wasn't for her, I never would've joined the Uncrowned. Small world, isn't it?"

"Getting smaller every day..." Sheason nodded, turning his gaze back to the horizon.

"Hmm..." Vanessa eyed Sheason with suspicion, and decided not to let it go. "So, what _did_ happen between you two, anyway?"

Sheason sighed and gripped the bridge of his nose.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?" Sheason asked. Vanessa shrugged.

"Probably not. You're too fun to poke, and I'm bored."

"It was... This was a long time ago," Sheason grunted. "She was young, and I was... stupid. Things got complicated, and I ended up costing her a lot. More than I expected, at any rate..." That was, _technically_ , true, Sheason thought to himself. It just wasn't the _whole_ truth. "The last thing she said to me, before she kicked me off her ship, was 'Get out of my life, I never want to see you again.' That's pretty unequivocal, if you ask me." Except she said it with a much thicker accent and laced with a bucket load more profanity, Sheason thought. Despite himself, he fought back a smirk. "I've wanted to make amends with her for years, but I just... I never figured out how."

"Ye kin start by sayin' yer sorry, ye daft cunt," Davira said. Vanessa jumped at the voice; Sheason did not.

Even in her human form, Davira cut an imposing figure as she stood there, hand resting on the hilt of one of her cutlasses. Her captain's coat must have been a proud Kul Tiran green, once upon a time, but now was faded from use and wear to be almost brown. Nearly every inch of her person, from her heavy, steel-tipped boots to the notched tricorn hat sitting atop her tangled red hair, was covered in weapons. Her piercing green eyes were fixed on Sheason, as he slowly turned to face her.

"Thought you were busy?" he asked cautiously. From her stone-faced expression, it looked like she still wanted to toss him off the ship, but she stood ten feet away from the two of them.

"Our course's set," she grunted out. "Sharptotem, th' Quartermaster, kin keep 'er steady fer now, while th' two've us settle things."

There was a long, awkward pause. Vanessa nervously looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Look," Sheason said finally, breaking the silence. "I know you wanna kill me, and... yeah, fair enough. I get it. But if we're gonna fight, we should probably wait. I don't want to be responsible for sinking _another_ one of your ships."

"Fer fuck sake, shut yer gob an' lis'n," Dav spat back. "Ah ain't here t'kill ya, you fuckin' walnut, ah'm here t' lay down some ground rules fer this 'ere endeavour. Fact is: you **owe** me. Y'owe me, big. An' I aim t'collect on that debt, one way or th' other. If you ain't paid me back by th' end've our business, ah'm takin' it outta yer ass. Savvy?"

"Crystal clear," Sheason nodded. "I would expect nothing less." He paused, clearing his throat, and then added: "For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry about what happened." Davira continued to scowl at him, growling under he breath.

"That remains t'be seen."

Once again, there was a very long pause. Vanessa had been silently watching all of this, unable to find a decent moment to escape; not without dropping a smoke-bomb, at least.

"Sooo..." Sheason leaned back against the deck rails. "You're a worgen now, huh? That's new." Vanessa quirked an eyebrow.

"It is?" she asked. Davira rolled her eyes and snorted.

"Nae, it isn't. Ye jus' been gone a long while." She sniffed loudly, and spat over the edge of the deck rails. "Ye make a single crack 'bout 'sea dogs' an' ah'll gut ye like a **fish**."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sheason stifled a laugh, and Davira started growling again, so he quickly moved on. "So, what happened? You piss off a Gilnean or something?"

"Aye, summat like that. Had a nasty run-in with th' Brashtide Crew, while back. One've 'em bit me. Been like this ev'r since." Davira shrugged. "Hones'ly? Ain't s'bad."

Suddenly, the singing from the crew fell silent as a high-pitched – yet, incredibly loud – voice cut through the air, bellowing from the crows nest above them.

"Starboard bow ahoy!" Davira looked up at the voice, and called back, just as loud:

"Aye! What is it, Lightbrass?"

A tiny gnome girl swung down from her perch, landing on the rigging of the nearest shroud and hanging onto the ropes like a monkey. A human-sized dagger fashioned into the shape of a cutlass hung off her hip, she had a blunderbuss as big as she was slung across her back, and her pig-tail hair was dyed a deep, blood-red.

"Ship in the fog ahead, Cap'n," the red-haired gnome replied. "Two points off the starboard bow, 'bout a mile distant."

"Fog?" Sheason asked, confused.

Immediately, Davira made for where Sheason was standing, roughly shoving him aside with a terse "Move!" and pulling a spyglass out of her coat. It was at this moment that Sheason realized they were no longer sailing in completely clear skies. While the seas _behind_ them were relatively clear, there was a dark, thick, extremely dense fog-bank directly in front of the ship. It looked like they were trying (and failing) to sail around it.

He had a bad feeling about this...

"What do you see?" Vanessa asked. Davira didn't answer at first; she stood there, spyglass fixed on the horizon. A line of blue-green runes started glowing brightly along the edge of the metal tube.

"Aye, there's a ship, alright... Kul Tiran colors, but..." she dropped the spyglass for a second, before looking through it again. "Looks t'be one've th'... Those look like Tidesages, but they'nt be out this far unless..."

A barely perceptible flash smudged the fog, followed by a muffled thunderclap.

"DOWN! ALL HANDS, DOWN!" Davira boomed at the top of her voice, diving for the deck and covering her head. Sheason grabbed Vanessa out of habit and pulled her to the deck with him. Seconds later, dozens of cannonballs and a hail of buckshot screamed through the air, splintering wood and sending shockwaves through the ship.

Dozen of voices echoed throughout the ship all at once, even before the noise from the barrage had time to settle down. By the time Sheason had a chance to look up, Davira was already standing tall; she had shifted back into a worgen, and was snarling from her muzzle full of sharp fangs.

"T'yer stations!" she barked, amid a flurry of motion, shouting, and ringing bells from the crew. "Handsomely now ye gobshites, all've ye! Run out the starboard battery! Sharptotem, bring us about an' come up on th' wind!"

"Aye, cap'n!" the tauren at the ship's wheel called back. The ship shuddered as it began to turn.

"Both've you lubbers," Davira glanced at the two of them over her shoulder. "Either make yerselves useful, or get b'low decks."

"Will do," Sheason said. He was already on his feet, and readying his weapons.

"I don't get it!" Vanessa coughed out, finally getting up. "Who are the Tidesages?"

"Wizards of the seas," Sheason replied calmly despite the chaos, as he began to load a pair of hand cannons. "Met a few in the Second War. They're the reason the Kul Tiran fleet is nigh unstoppable; the very _ocean itself_ answers the call of their navy. But..." Sheason looked back at the now tattered flag above the quarterdeck. They were still flying Kul Tiras green. "Why would a Kul Tiran ship fire on one of their own?"

"I don't care if it's Anduin's own bloody _**flagship**_!" Davira roared, wheeling on Sheason with murder in her eyes. "I'll send those scabs to th' depths fer this!"

"Just get us out of range," Sheason said forcefully. This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, since Davira pulled out one of her cutlasses and pointed it at his face.

"Did ye jus' try an' give me orders on **MY SHIP**?!" she snarled... and then, her face shifted from anger to confusion, as she looked at the device Sheason was strapping to his arm. ".. what're ye doin?"

"Do you remember that fleet the two of us sunk off the coast of Plunder Isle, about ten years back?" Sheason asked with a smirk. Davira furrowed her brow... and then her eyes widened as she suddenly remembered. "Trust me, Dav. Keep the ship out of range, and I'll do the rest." Vanessa, who had been shifting her attention from the two of them to the enemy ship in the fog bearing down on them, finally saw the device and realization flashed in her eyes.

"Oh, you cheeky... Is that what I think it is?" she asked. Sheason finished locking the device in place and started pressing buttons.

"Yep. Parting gift from an old friend. I'll be right back." He hit one final button, and the teleportation circuit crackled to life in a flash of lightning. A cloud of pitch-black smoke swirled around him, completely consuming him; there was a breath of wind, and the cloud dispersed with Sheason nowhere in sight.

* * *

A cloud of smoke suddenly materialized in the crow's nest of the Tidesage ship. Before the barrelman stationed there had a chance to react – or even make a noise – there was a whirlwind of steel as Sheason burst from within the smoke. The enemy sailor lay dead at Sheason's feet within seconds. As he pulled his daggers from the wet, slimy corpse, Sheason paused, finally getting a look at his quarry:

"These aren't Tidesages," he muttered under his breath. The corpse was humanoid, but the head... it was a face full of tentacles. He had seen this kind of creature before. It almost looked like an illithid, but... no, this wasn't one of the mind-flayers of the Underdark. This creature was local. Something related to the Faceless Ones, maybe?

"Well now... that may answer one question, but now I've got several more. What are servants of the Old Gods doing here, masquerading as Tidesages?" Sheason muttered peering over the edge of the crow's nest, and pulling several smoke bombs, a flashbang, and an anti-magic grenade off his belt. Sure enough, the entire crew seemed to consist of these tentacle-heads. "Well, doesn't matter right now. I'm sure I'll figure out what's going on soon enough."

Sheason tossed the explosives over the side, waited a few seconds, and leapt over the edge after them. The instant he landed on the deck, he made use of the confusion from the explosions and started to carve his way through the enemy crew.

* * *

Several minutes had passed without incident on the Onyx Pike since the initial attack. The crew was at their stations and ready to return fire, but the ship had kept itself well out of range, and just kept going. The "Tidesage" vessel hadn't made a move since Sheason teleported over, and was merely sitting within the dense fog, either unable or unwilling to give chase as the privateer vessel sailed further and further away.

Davira and Vanessa had both moved back to the quarterdeck, to keep a better eye on the enemy ship as they sailed away. Davira had been peering through her spyglass nearly the entire time, trying to work out what was going on.

"Lightbrass, time," Davira barked. The red-headed gnome perched on the nearby railing pulled out a pocket watch.

"Five minutes, thirty-two seconds, Cap'n," she replied. Davira furrowed her brow.

"What's takin' 'im so long?" she muttered. Vanessa rolled her eyes.

"You really think he's coming _back_?" she asked. "I wouldn't. Those engineered teleport circuits can reach _anywhere_. If I had one, I'd already be halfway to Outland by now."

"Hmph," Davira grunted, keeping her eyes on the enemy ship. "Sheason's many things. A liar, a cheat, a manipulative greasy snake..." she snorted derisively. "... but he ain't ah coward. Never was. He's ov'r there, alright."

Without warning, the fog surrounding the other boat cleared; it was as if a tremendous gust of wind had come from nowhere, and blew the fog away in an instant. The Onyx Pike picked up an unexpected burst of speed, as the wind was no longer blocked by any magical fog and was free to refill their sails.

There was a soft pop from behind them, and Davira, Vanessa, Lightbrass and Sharptotem all turned to the cloud of pitch-black smoke that materialized on deck. The smoke swirled, and Sheason appeared. His armor was a bit singed, and he was covered from head to toe in splotches purple blood and black slime.

"That was a hell of a thing," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Bout time! Wh –" Davira began, but Sheason held up three fingers, while looking at the teleport circuit on his wrist.

"Three... two... one..." he said, dropping a finger with each digit. He looked up, and pointed to the other ship. "... now."

On cue, the Tidesage vessel was consumed by a massive explosion erupting from the center of the ship. The fireball burst the hull apart at the seams as if it was made of papier-mâché, and a titanic fountain of water was shot into the air, twice the height of the Onyx Pike's mizzen mast.

"Left a little present in their powder magazine," Sheason explained smugly, as everyone was transfixed by the sight of the disintegrating vessel.

"Pleased with yourself?" Vanessa asked, echoing his words from earlier.

"Always," he replied, reaching behind him for something. "Oh, by the way: we weren't fighting Tidesages."

"What d'ye mean?" Davira asked just as Sheason pulled out a severed be-tentacled head, and tossed it on the deck at her feet. Everyone took a step back at the sight; even for this hardened, salty crew of buccaneers, the sight was a bit of a shock.

"What the hell is _that_?" Vanessa asked, pointing at the octopus-like head.

"If my hunch is correct?" Sheason tried to shake the excess slime off his hands. "It's a sign that things are about to get a lot more interesting, very soon..."


	4. Sick of Home

"You know," Sheason muttered aloud as he sat in his musty jail cell, "I think I'm finally over my home sickness."

Sheason had been running with the crew of the Onyx Pike for the last few months, and it had been a whirlwind of adventure and drunken larking about on the high seas. Even when they had parted ways with Vanessa and Sheason had paid off the money he owed to Davira, he stayed on, because it was just so much fun... for the most part. Nevermind that his debt to Davira was for more than just money, but that wasn't really the point. For the first time in years, Sheason felt like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

But he just couldn't leave well enough alone.

Ever since their first encounter with the ship crewed by Old God corrupted Tidesages, the crew started to run afoul of even more of them. As the days wore on, Tidesage ships became a worryingly frequent occurrence... and that wasn't the only problem. Every day, more Naga would appear from beneath the waves, in numbers that hadn't been seen since the Cataclysm. And if that wasn't enough, they also had to deal with rogue Zandalari ships; sometimes, they had been obviously stolen and were crewed by those blood trolls from Nazmir, and sometimes crewed by both trolls... and _Mogu._ That was a bit of a surprise, if only because he hadn't thought about the Mogu since The Magical Adventures In Panda Land™.

Either way, it didn't take long for Sheason to put all these pieces together to figure out that the Old Gods were planning something, and whatever it was, it was **big**. It made sense, after all; with the Legion defeated and Sargeras imprisoned by both Illidan and the Titans, the biggest threats to their power were either gone or preoccupied. Not to mention, the Alliance and Horde were still so dead set on killing each other with that utterly pointless pissing contest of a faction war, they probably hadn't even noticed that any this was going on.

In other words, the world was poised – yet again – on the brink of an apocalyptic disaster, and nobody seemed to care, because this shit happens every other Tuesday on Azeroth. Still, Sheason figured, something needed to be done. He may have been running with a pirate crew, but he still had a conscience. He might as well do it himself.

Every night, he would slip away from the Onyx Pike using his teleport circuit, and hunt down the servants of the Old Gods. He needed to figure out what they were up to (beyond simply "something big"), and sabotage it however he could. An old friend of still in the Uncrowned gave him some advice on where to start: "Follow the Azerite." And that, as it happened, led him to the Ashvane Company.

Things for Sheason settled into a bit of a routine... and, of course, that is exactly why everything went wrong. He got complacent, and it made him sloppy.

He reflected on all of this as he sat on the edge of his filthy cot, in a cell buried deep in the bowels of Tol Dagor. He was down to a pair of shorts and a dirty second-hand shirt, as the corrupt wardens had stripped him of all his gear and weapons. Sure, he'd been in tighter spots than this before... just not recently.

"How the fuck am I gonna get out of this one?" he sighed heavily. He scanned the interior of his 10 by 10 box for the thousandth time. All he had to do: get out of his cell, find his gear, and assassinate the warden. Preferably, in that order. Then he'd be home free. But for all the enhancements he picked up in his time away from Azeroth – his cybernetics, his vat-grown organs and limbs, his augmented senses – none of it meant a damn thing, because he couldn't punch through ten feet of stone or break iron bars. There was a trick, but he'd need a wet towel and a lot of time for that...

Suddenly, he heard raised voices and a commotion echoing from somewhere in the distance. Was that a riot? He could work with a riot. In a flash, Sheason was off the cot and into the shadows, waiting for the inevitable chaos to get to him. Sure, it was kind of a longshot, but he didn't exactly have a lot of options at this point.

Then the sounds changed. The shouting changed from angry to _terrified_. And... that was the sound of explosions, wasn't it? Without warning, a body flew past the cell door. It was flying through the air, several feet off the ground, and it was travelling at considerable speed. Sheason was momentarily confused, and then:

"Typical," a silky smooth female voice wafted through the air. "I leave you alone for a few months, and you can't help but get yourself in some kind of trouble." Sheason stepped out of the shadows and approached the bars of his cell to get a look at the owner of the voice, despite knowing **damn** well who it was.

Tuera walked into view, calm as anything. Her outfit was a futuristic blend of colorful abstract shapes that hugged her figure; a stark contrast to the damp, wet, utilitarian stone and rusty iron bars all around. Her skin, her necklace, her earrings, and all her jewel-encrusted rings seemed to glow, despite there being no light source to explain it. She was also wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses, and in one of her hands was a plastic Starbucks cup filled with bubble tea. She stared at Sheason for a few seconds, loudly sipping her drink through the straw with pursed lips.

Sheason braced himself for what he thought was the inevitable mockery.

"So... how've you been?" Tuera said with a broad, smug smile.

"Gonna be honest," Sheason leaned forward, grabbing the bars. "Things have been better. Come to gloat?"

"Not at all!" she said. With a wave, the drink in her hand disappeared with a pop. "I was just doing a bit of shopping on Ursa Minor Beta, and I thought to myself 'I wonder what Sheason's been doing since I've been on holiday?' And, to my utter bewilderment, I find you – oh, hang on." She turned to her left, raised her hand, and snapped her fingers. The far end of the corridor burst into an inferno of green flames, and the guards caught in the blast screamed. Tuera turned back to Sheason as if nothing had happened. "Anyway, I find you here. What happened?"

"Eh, s'my own damn fault, really. I got careless, and let myself get too cocky..." Sheason muttered, sheepishly. He paused, furrowing his brow. "Wait, how _did_ you find me, anyway?" Tuera shrugged.

"You left that forwarding number to your teleport circuit."

"That -" doesn't make sense, he wanted to say. Instead, he merely sighed and shook his head. "Look, never mind. Can you help me out here? I'm in a bit of a situation."

"Sure, then you can tell me all about how you went and embarrassed yourself this time," she said with a wicked grin. She momentarily studied the cell door, and gave Sheason a "shoo!" motion. "You might want to back up."

Sheason stepped as far away from the door as he could and flattened himself against the nearby wall. Tuera flicked her hand, and a lick of green flame shot out, scampering up and down the iron bars. The hinges and the lock started to glow briefly before vomiting sparks – and then the door exploded off the hinges, smashing into the far wall, and turning the bed into a pile of splinters.

"Ready to go?" Tuera asked, standing in the empty – and still smoking – doorframe. Sheason just chuckled and shook his head.

"You are just so fucking Extra," Sheason said. "You do know that, right?"

"That's just part of my _aesthetic_ , darling," she said with a laugh. "Admit it: you've missed me!"

* * *

"So, the Old Gods are back, are they? How exciting!" Tuera exclaimed from her dainty perch on the edge of the ex-warden's desk. Sheason, meanwhile, was busy inspecting and refitting all of his gear; it was a considerable amount of armor, weapons, and gadgets he had to take stock of, so it was taking quite some time for him to get it all sorted.

Sheason's original plan was to sneak here, but because Tuera never went anywhere silently, that hadn't really been necessary.

"Yeah, it's a whole stupid mess," Sheason sighed, tumbling one of his throwing knives across his knuckles.

"So, why even get involved? It's not really your problem, is it?" Tuera asked. Sheason shrugged.

"Well, I mean, it kind of is. For as much time as I've spent away, Azeroth is my home, and I'm gonna take it a little personal if some eldritch being of chaos turns it inside out. Besides, it's not like I can count on anyone else to fix this..." Sheason trailed off just as Tuera started laughing raucously. "What? What's the matter?"

"I told you!" Tuera mocked in a sing-song voice. "I told you this when we went to go hunt my father, remember? You like to pretend you're this big gruff, cynical, world-weary, anti-hero jackass archetype, but deep down?" She prodded the center of his chest. "We both know that you're a Good Man. When push comes to shove, you always try to do the right thing."

"Well... okay, maybe, but-"

"But nothing," Tuera interrupted him. "It's so sickeningly earnest of you, it makes me want to vomit."

"Look, as far as I can tell, nobody else is gonna do anything, alright?" Sheason leaned forward on the desk. "Especially not with this stupid faction war. Greymane and Sylvanas aren't going to stop this nonsense until the both of them are six feet under." Tuera chuckled to herself at that.

"I swear, that old wolf must have the world's worst handicap, getting into a dick-measuring contest with a _woman_." Even Sheason couldn't help but laugh, but he quickly tried to compose himself.

"Okay, look, enough about me, alright?" he said, returning to his gear. "What have you been up to? I haven't seen you since you atomized Venthrax. You up and disappeared on me without a word."

Tuera bristled, and suddenly shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the desk. Sheason furrowed his brow; this wasn't like her.

"Oh... well... you know," she stammered out, adjusting her sunglasses and trying desperately to regain her composure. "I just... I needed a bit of time on my own, you know? I had a lot to work through! I'd been dealing with a lot of those issues for literal decades, so I just... I needed some time alone to get my head straight." Suddenly, her face lit up and she snapped her fingers. "Oh! Speaking of heads, I found Phyacair! I know we both thought he went down with that exploding moon, to buy us time to escape, but he survived! Or... at least, his _head_ survived. I've been meaning to grow him a new body, but I've been a bit distracted with a whole bunch of new projects keeping me occupied."

"Projects?" Sheason narrowed his eyes with suspicion, but Tuera quickly waved him off.

"Oh no, don't worry, it's nothing like you're imagining. Like I said before, I'm well past that 'supervillain' phase, especially now that the Old Man is dead. I'm actually making an honest living now!" Tuera smiled broadly from behind her sunglasses; she was genuinely beaming.

"An honest living, huh?" Sheason shrugged. "I'm not really in a position to say anything, I've been running with a pirate crew."

"I'm sure you'll mock, but I decided that I need to express myself more. To that end, I've been keeping myself busy with a number of artistic endeavors. I've tried my hand at modeling, some photography, a bit of painting, I DJ a club every other weekend or so, there's that record deal I just signed... Plus my agent is in talks for getting me the lead in 'Breakthrough Echoes,' Xenthar's new Space Opera..."

"Wait, back up," Sheason held up a hand as he interrupted her. "Record deal? I didn't know you could sing."

"Why, _of course_ I can sing! I am a woman of manifold and diverse talents. Actually, hang on..." She flicked the gem in one of her earrings, and it began to glow. "Let me give my agent a quick call, I can have him send over a copy of my album, you can judge for yourself."

"Uh..." Sheason chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm good, thanks."

"Are you sure?" Tuera asked. Sheason looked around, and gestured at the blood-stained walls of the warden's office.

"Uh... I don't know if you've noticed, but we're kind of in the middle of a thing, y'know? I mean, where am I gonna put it? Next to my smoke bombs?" Sheason grabbed the last dagger on the table – Black Menace – and sheathed it on his hip before adding: "Tell you what. If this Old God business gets sorted out, I'll come visit you out in space and I'll buy this album of yours."

"Why wait?" Tuera asked without missing a beat. "I mean... let's be honest. It's _Azeroth_. This planet is **fucked** ; it'll **always** be in danger. If it's not a planet-ending catastrophe, it's a massive world war where thousands die and everybody loses. This isn't going to stop, so why even care? And besides, I just know you still have that spaceship, safely tucked away somewhere. You were too protective of that thing when I was onboard..." She paused, getting up off the table to face him. "You've got a way off this doomed rock, and no real attachments, so... you could just leave. Try and enjoy yourself for once in your life, you know?"

The room was filled with silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. He didn't say it out loud... but he was seriously considering her offer. He _could_ just leave. After all... he was kind of getting sick of all this...

"Maybe you're right..." he grunted out eventually. "But I... Nah." He shook his head and smiled at her. "I can't leave. Not yet. I've got to give it my best shot, you know? I won't be satisfied with myself, otherwise."

Tuera almost looked momentarily disappointed. She raised a hand and snapped her fingers; a dark, shadowy portal opened up behind her, swirling and breathing purple smoke around her feet.

"Do what you've got to do." She turned to leave, but stopped halfway and looked at him over her shoulder. "If you ever change your mind, you've got my number." She winked one last time before stepping into the portal. It collapsed shut behind her with a pop.

* * *

Somewhere in the seas just south of Kul Tiras, Captain Davira Smythe was pacing on the deck of the Onyx Pike. One of the hatches near her feet slammed open, and a pair of blood-red pigtails emerged.

"Ye found 'im yet, Lightbrass?" Dav asked the owner of the pigtails.

"I've gone through the ship stem to stern, Cap'n," the gnome said, hopping up onto the deck. "I can't find a single trace of him."

"Oh, where'n th' hell is that bloody fookin' cunt?" Dav growled to herself.

"Well, he _is_ a spy." Lightbrass said with a shrug. "If he doesn't want to be found, he's not gonna be found." Davira let out a heavy sigh and shook her head.

"Nev'rmind. Back t'yer post."

"Aye, Cap'n," Lightbrass gave a curt nod, and pulled a small grappling gun out of her vest. She fired it at the crows nest, and rocketed into the air. Davira, meanwhile, continued to grumble and growl, obviously frustrated.

"Talking about me behind my back, huh?" Sheason asked. Dav was so shocked at the unexpected sound that she simultaneously yelped, jumped, transformed into her worgen form, and drew both cutlasses at once. Sheason, meanwhile, simply stood there with a subtle smirk behind his beard, completely unfazed. Dav stared at him, boggle-eyed, for a second or two before baring her fangs.

"Y-YOU! Where'n th' hell have you been?!" she snarled angrily, sheathing her swords.

"I had to take care of a few errands," he said. "Ran into an old friend, and it took longer than expected."

"Ye been gone fer three days!" Dav shouted.

"Have I?" Sheason asked, walking past her. "Yeah, there weren't many clocks in Tol Dagor." Dav started to follow, but stopped short as a look of confusion, once again, fell across her face.

"... the... prison? Th' hell were y'doin' there?"

"I'll explain later. First things first though," he turned on his heels and gave her a lazy salute. "Permission to get some rum, Captain? I am dyin' of thirst over here..."


	5. Something Completely Different

Sheason Fisher stood on the observation deck of Tuera's luxury yacht masquerading as a starship. Her ship was parked in orbit around a gas giant, a few kilometers above the ring of icy asteroids encircling the planet. A pair of other starships were hovering nearby, close enough to be seen with the naked eye but not so close as to worry about collisions. He turned away from the planet, and looked out into the inky blackness of deep space; his own face reflected in the glass, staring back at him.

The meaning of the expression etched upon his own face seemed to elude him. After all, he had, once again, left Azeroth... only this time, he knew, deep down, that he wasn't ever going to go back. A few years away from his homeworld, and he started to feel homesick; a few months neck-deep in all the stupid bullshit, and he never wanted to see that fucking planet ever again. Plus, all his worries about the Old Gods? Completely unfounded. N'Zoth got banished practically as an afterthought in the span of about of a month, and then it was right back to the idiotic faction war. That just made him feel all manner of stupid.

First chance he got, he decided to leave Azeroth and never look back. He was so far beyond done with this shit. And he still wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wasn't even sure how he _should_ have been feeling about it. Happy? Sad? Relieved? Bitter? Confused? Exhausted? That last one was probably the closest to the truth.

He let out a heavy sigh.

A door opened behind him with a hiss of displaced air. He turned just in time to see Tuera glide into the room in one of her many elegant and absurd outfits. She had a cocktail in hand that seemed to shift colors between swirls of red and orange; it matched her outfit perfectly. Sheason couldn't help but shake his head and chuckle despite himself.

"So!" Tuera said with a smile. "Is the pirate crew of the Onyx Pike getting used to life out here?" Sheason nodded.

"Yeah. They're doing better than I thought, truth be told." He paused. "Then again, it there's one thing all the peoples of Azeroth share, it's the ability to instantly adapt to whatever stupid situation we find ourselves in." He gestured between the two of them. "Hell, the two of us proof enough of **that**."

"Comes with the territory," she said with a shrug, sipping her drink. "Most people call a world threatening to explode an apocalypse; we just call that Tuesday," she said, grinning broadly from behind her cocktail. "I am glad you finally took me up on my offer, though. It certainly took you long enough."

"Didn't have much of a choice, if I'm honest..." Sheason chuckled nervously. "I mean, I _was_ kind of responsible for sending _yet_ _another_ one of Davira's pirate ships to the bottom of the ocean. She was a hairs-width away from ripping me in half, so just getting her a replacement wasn't going to cut it this time. I had to get her something..." he paused, looking at one of the starships parked nearby. "... better."

"Quite the leap, from a square-rigged galleon armed with 32-pounders to a star corvette armed with railguns and plasma cannons," Tuera said, moving to the window and nodding approvingly at the larger of the two nearby vessels. "She enjoying herself, at least?"

Before Sheason could answer, there was a pair of flashes from the larger ship, and two energy lances speared away from the side and impacted the icy side of a nearby asteroid. It exploded in a burst of rocks and crystallized water vapor, sending shrapnel in every direction. The edges of both ships shimmered as the deflector shields activated in response. Even Tuera's ship was buffeted by the shockwave and shrapnel, and the deck rumbled slightly as the shields appeared outside the glass with an iridescent shimmer.

"Well now!" Tuera said with a hearty laugh, turning away from the window and downing the rest of her cocktail. "I suppose that answers that. Can I get you a drink?"

"Yeah, sounds good," he said, following her to the surprisingly well stocked bar behind them. Tuera disappeared briefly behind the counter and then reappeared, spinning a cocktail shaker in her hand.

"Any preference?" she asked, setting the cocktail shaker against the counter with a loud clang of metal against metal.

"This place wouldn't happen to have any Neth-" he began, but stopped himself. Nethergarde Bitter had been his drink of choice for nearly a decade, but now... he just wasn't in the mood. "Actually, y'know what? Surprise me." In response, Tuera waggled her eyebrows at him and smiled broadly, her sharpened canines glinting in the light. She began pulling bottles of liquor from the shelves, lining them up like a row of dominoes. She started unscrewing the top of the first one, and laughed.

"Hey," she said, leaning over the counter toward Sheason, bottle in hand. "Look at us. Eh?" He couldn't help but laugh along with her. He had to admit, she had a point. It wasn't that long ago, the two of them were mortal nemeses, and now? It's like they were old friends.

"Look at us," he chuckled in agreement. "Who would've thought, huh?"

"Not me!" she said, grabbing another bottle and pouring it into the mix. As she worked, Sheason's eyes wandered, eventually settling on a oddity displayed in a glass case at the far end of the observation deck-slash-bar.

"So... uh..." he began uncertainly, pointing at the curio. "What's new?"

He wasn't entirely certain _what_ it _was_ that he was looking at. It appeared to be a gemstone, glowing from within thanks to a shifting miasma of malevolent light pulsing inside the center of the crystal. It was sitting in the middle of an ornate alien box decorated with tentacles and eyes and... _teeth_. The longer he looked at the stone, the more he realized: the angles of the stone's edges didn't match up with each other the way they _looked_ like they were _supposed_ to. Just briefly glancing at the thing was giving him a mild headache.

"Nothing much, really," Tuera shrugged, continuing to work on the drink in her hands. Either she hadn't noticed or chose to ignore his gesture. "I mean, I met your counterpart from New Vegas a while back. Y'know, the Courier? He was having a spot of trouble adjusting to life in The Inbetween, but I helped him out." She paused, thinking on that briefly. "Maybe. Haven't heard a peep from him since, so I assume he's doing alright..."

"Actually, I meant... what's new with _that_ ," he said, emphasizing the word, and finally grabbing her attention. "Because that thing seems new."

"Oh! The Shining Trapezohedron!" she said, shaking the cocktail shaker vigorously. "Yeah, I can see why you'd be worried. It's technically an artefact of the Old Ones. Or, at least... it was. Don't worry, it's not actually here, it's just a hologram. I have that case set to cycle through several 'souvenirs' I picked up during my latest vacation. I think it's going to show the Diadem of the Giant-Kings, next..."

"Vacation?" Sheason asked incredulously. Tuera shrugged.

"Softens the blow," she said, unscrewing the top of the shaker, tossing it aside, and grabbing a pair of chilled glasses. "I just think 'vacation' sounds better than 'getting stranded in yet **another** parallel reality for several months,' don't you?"

"I feel like a story is imminent..." Sheason said, exhibiting a staggering lack of surprise.

"And you'd be right!" Tuera smiled, pouring the pair of drinks; the liquid sparked and fizzed when it fell into the glass, and smoke poured off the edges. She slid one of the glasses across the bar to him. "Here. You're going to need a stiff drink, because this one?" She paused, raising her glass in Sheason's direction in a toast before taking a sip.

"This may take a while to explain..."

* * *

 _Authors note: Now, as I'm sure most of you have realized: this is NOT how I was planning on ending this story. Then again, I didn't exactly have any kind of plan in the first place when I started. And that was my first mistake. If there's one thing I should've learned from the New Vegas story, it's that I should always make sure to have a concrete beginning, middle, and end planned out before starting anything._

 _Thing is, I haven't played any Blizzard games – and especially not World of Warcraft – since February of 2019, when Bobby Kotick announced record profits to the shareholders and then proceeded to fire 800 people, all in the same motion. I was so disgusted by that, and continue to be so disgusted, because the vile excesses of a greedy company trying to squeeze more money out of a bloody stone have only gotten worse since then, and I just... I couldn't find the motivation to continue a story set in Azeroth. The Blizzard that I used to know, the Blizzard that used to make video games that I loved... just doesn't exist anymore. It's dead, and the rotten, desecrated corpse is being manipulated like a puppet by one of the many slimy, slick-black tentacles of Activision._

 _He's more machine now, than man. Twisted and evil._

 _Of course, I didn't want to just leave things on a cliffhanger, like what I did to this character all the way back in... fuck, was it 2011? It was, wasn't it? Fucking hell... Look, either way, I didn't want to leave him in Azeroth, because (like Sheason) I'm pretty sure I'm never going back, but I didn't want to leave things dangling. So, here we are._

 _I'm fully aware that nobody gives a shit. Barely anyone ever read this story, and I have a sneaking suspicion that no one reading this now even cares. The only one who cares is me, because my brain has occasionally prodded me the last few months with "Hey, so, are you ever going to finish that Same War, Different Day story, or are you just going to leave it unresolved forever?"_

 _And this was the only way I was ever going to get my brain to shut the fuck up._

* * *

 **Tuera Ashama will return in "Ashen Exile"**


End file.
